


whiskey kiss, straight to my heart

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drinking, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:16:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: Harley falls headfirst through a pool of high-proof alcohol and in love with Peter Parker.





	whiskey kiss, straight to my heart

**Author's Note:**

> The title and overall fic is inspired by Matt McAndrew's "[Game Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LuV1mecYSmw)". I highly suggest giving it a listen to get a feel of the fic.

The heady scent of teen spirit bygones and alcohol and drugs perfume the air, loud music throbbing loud directly into Harley's veins. He's at some party his friend Harry dragged him to, with said friend nowhere to be found. He's been nursing the same cup of alcohol plus some kind of mixer for the past 20 minutes, the plastic's gone warm in his palm.

He was planning on showing up for an hour, watch people progressively get wasted, then go home and remind Harry not to bring home any strays he picks up on the way back. That's the plan.

Or rather, it _was_ the plan. Until his Physics classmate's roommate's somewhat-boyfriend Flash drags him to the coffee table in the center of the living room, a dozen shot glasses lined up with high-proof hooch that should've probably been outlawed. Harley knows that he could've easily said no and Flash would've backed off with a "respect" and fistbump, until. Until.

"C'mon, cowboy!" Someone with unruly brown curls and bright eyes calls him over with a crooked finger, clearly a few in themself. "Let loose and live a little!"

Harley must look a little nervous, a little lost, that someone beside him elbows an explanation. "That's Peter, Peter Parker," another stranger with long blonde hair explains, "he just got an internship at a place he's been gunning for, so he's drinking the night away like a party animal," they hand him a shotglass. "Drink if you can, but if you really don't want to, that's up to you."

Harley takes one look into those doe-brown eyes full of mirth then flicks downwards at those pink, plump lips and thinks, _oh fuck. Game over._

So he drinks.

He drinks and drinks until the room's gained a slight tilt and everything's a little bit lighter, a little bit bubblier. He drinks until he can come up to those doe eyes and ask for a swing on the dance floor, enough that the 3-inch barrier he has towards the world falls away and Harley comes up with less-than-biblical touches on that trim waist.

"Your eyes are pretty," Peter blurts out, reaching up to brush away a stray hair from Harley's eyes. "Like an ocean," he tilts his head before giggling.

Harley ducks his head, blushing. He's had a good many people come onto him like this, in more suave and sober ways, and somehow this Bambi lookalike stumbles in drunk and blows all of them out of the water. "I think your eyes are pretty too, sweet thing," he returns, palm settling on the small of Peter's back like it was always meant to be there.

"I'm sure that's what you say to all the guys," Peter says with a cheeky grin, placing a hand on Harley's bicep. "I've heard all about you, cowboy."

Harley tilts his head, a question mark. "All good things, I hope."

Peter's voice drops to a purr. " _Very_ good things," and Harley gulps. He's so far gone, and they've only just _met_. "I wonder if any of the things they say are true."

Harley licks his suddenly-dry lips, gulps another of air for his throat. "May I kiss you?"

Peter's eyebrow quirks up a fraction, before a sweet smile spreads on his face. "Oh," he puts his arms around Harley's neck. "You didn't even need to ask, a true Southern gen-"

His ramble gets cut short when Harley surges down to Peter's mouth in a single, sweet kiss. Peter tastes like the alcohol they've been drinking and he hopes he can taste even more as the night goes on. Harley feels like the air's been sucked out of him, the rush of adrenaline honing his attention to the little pocket of the world they're in, concentration sharpened to a fine point.

* * *

That's how they end up stumbling through the throng, up the stairs and into an unoccupied bedroom. Some of the doors are locked, closed off, thumps against the wall not just a product of the powerful bass from downstairs.

* * *

The dizzying effects of the warmth in the pit of his stomach is no match for the headrush that comes with kissing Peter Parker. It's thrilling, it's all-consuming, it's hands and lips on skin and still unable to get enough.

They end up on the bed, mussed sheets and pillows kicked off and mushed on the headboard. Peter's breath is hot, heavy, and demanding when he sighs into Harley's mouth, hands gripping his shirt like it's the only thing keeping him upright at sea. Harley's not so above that he couldn't admit he's about the same way, sucking on Peter's bottom lip and letting his own hands roam under his shirt.

" _C'mon,_ " Peter whines, tugging at the hem of Harley's shirt. And really, across the lowered inhibitions and fog of desire, Harley's thinking is still crystal clear when he takes Peter's needy hand in his.

"Down, sugar," they break for air, Harley's voice husky and low. "We have the rest of the night," nips the lobe of Peter's ear to result in something high and keening. "Don't think the world will end if we don't."

So, with no little amount of effort on Harley's part, they dial it back. Harley settles his back on a pillow and wraps his arms around Peter, kissing up the bare column of his neck, digging fingers into his hips and running a hand up and down his spine. Slow, feather-light, getting to know someone he wants to fall into bed with more often than once.

But Peter, Peter always dials it all the way forward. Like a freight train, like a speech in front of a stadium of thousands, like crashing through a ceiling you didn't know existed. All the way forward that they're both shirtless and Peter's pawing at Harley's jeans and Harley always has to tilt his chin back up and calming the storm, biting and laving skin as a reminder.

Harley's resolve can stand only so much, against the beating of waves of alcohol and whining pleads and the warmth of someone held so close after a long time bereft.

"You sure you want this, sweetheart?" he caves, caves in to the tide as nimble fingers fish for a condom and lube from his back pockets. "Say no and we'll stop, whenever you like."

Peter nods, "yes" whispered between kiss-bitten lips. They make stumbling work of each other's jeans, shucking them away. In a moment of tenderness, Harley's hand reaches out and strokes the apple of Peter's cheek with his thumb. He knows only two things about this guy: his name and that he's going to be interning at his dream company, doesn't even know if he goes to MIT or what his favorite color is, and now they're about to have sex. It only bothers him that he's so desperate that he'll take whatever Peter can give him. Anything at all.

In that moment of tenderness, something breaks. 

Peter takes a sudden shuddering breath, leans into Harley's hand and closes his eyes. "No. No, this is... no," he says instead, an immediate whiplash from the speeds they were careening towards. "I'm sorry, I can't," he takes Harley's hand off his cheek and turns around, arms wrapped around himself.

"Sweetheart," Harley moves so he's sitting beside Peter, their legs dangling off the bed. "It's okay, I said you could say no, right?" Peter nods, biting his bottom lip. Harley itches to wipe that sudden sadness away. "Can I still touch you? Nothing frisky, only what you'll let me do."

Peter shows his assent by burying his face in Harley's shoulder, nodding into it as Harley wraps his arms around Peter's shoulders, letting his thumb rest on Peter's arm. "We can just sleep, hon. I'm okay with that," he adjusts so Peter can tuck his face into the crook of Harley's neck. "Whatever you need."

Peter sighs, breath tinged with the tail end of a quaking sob. Harley adjusts them so they're lying back down on the bed, Peter tucked against his side as he twines their fingers and legs together. He waits until Peter's shuddering breaths stop and even out before he kisses the crown of Peter's head. "Sleep, sweetheart."

Harley waits until Peter's breath slows, when all that's left is him with his swirling vortex of thoughts and the feeling of his beating heart. He's sure it might've burst from what's transpired in these few hours, thankful that it didn't.

He closes his eyes and focuses on Peter's grip tightening and relaxing against his hand. Then he drifts.

* * *

Harley wakes up an hour or two later from the vibration in his back pocket. The pounding of an oncoming hangover hasn't become debilitating just yet, but he turns down his phone's brightness in preparation. He's woken up by a ridiculous photo of Harry handcuffed to a chainlink fence with a "help?" captioned underneath. He bites his lip to keep down the laugh and keep Peter in sleep.

Speaking of, he looks over at his bedmate, still fast asleep but now curled in on himself on the other side of the bed. Harley's disappointed in the separation, but _whatever you need_ pulses in his mind as a reminder.

So instead he nods, finds his clothes in the mess of earlier that night. He debates leaving a note, or his phone number, something to be remembered by.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest, realizing he isn't sure if what he felt last night was real or a result of the substances running through his veins. He doesn't want to take the chance of overstepping boundaries. It's college, after all. He'd rather end up a hazy memory than a creep who bit off more than he can chew. He shakes his head, _not worth it_.

Harley takes one last look at Peter's sleeping figure, hand against the doorframe, and sighs. _I'm not worth it._

* * *

A few hours pass, a calm affair that's a far cry from the events of last night.

* * *

Peter wakes up with the world screaming down his neck. 

His head is pounding, the curtains are drawn but the slivers of light are too much.

He breathes in through his nose and out his mouth and wonders why he keeps doing this, especially when the mornings after are always headaches and pain.

He reached over to the other side of the bed only to find it empty.

The ping of an email comes in, full of excited buzzwords and his schedule for his internship.

May sent him a couple texts full of emojis in response to his messages from yesterday afternoon.

Someone creaks open the door, says "wow, Parker, what a night, huh?". Sets water and aspirin on the bedside.

Peter's mouth feels dry and full of cotton, says nothing but nods, eyes squeezed shut until the light from the door goes away.

He takes the aspirin and lies down.

He realizes he didn't even get the guy's name. But he's— he's memorized the feeling of that mouth on his skin.

_Fuck._


End file.
